


Warbird

by LyingMonsters



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: British Empire, Gen, Pining, power
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-08 07:17:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14100207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyingMonsters/pseuds/LyingMonsters
Summary: Warbird: a vintage military aircraft ‘released’ from duty due to it being old or outdated. A popular attraction at airshows.





	Warbird

_Hello, warbird, will you sing for me?_

_I will sing you a story._

A story full of salt and iron, and he’d tell it while his voice still weighed enough to sound, before America’s drowned his out unknowingly.

Power was like the sea, he had discovered. It waxed and waned with the moon, pushing tides of alliances and rivalries racing across oceans and continents as the clouds swirled above.

It came to you and swept you off your feet like a lover, and it’s kisses were heady and tasted of blood and ashes. You would grow to adore them, to need them, to seek them out time and time again as they strained away.

Power came to you and you pulled it in.

_Hello, warbird, what’s your name?_

_I left it behind among the engine sounds and gunfire._

‘ _What’s your name?_ ’ they had asked him, and time and time again he had given the answer ‘ _England_.’

And then they had given him medals to put on his uniform, and awards he hung on his wall, and they gave him promises worth their weight in dust and ash. They gave him their voices, chanting as one, across countries and across seas. And a boy had chanted with them.  
‘ _The empire on which the sun never sets_ …’  
‘... _Britain_.’

Power came to you and you held onto it.

_Hello, warbird, how does power taste?_

_It tastes better than blood_.

The sun in his eyes would blind him, and yet he stared into it as if he challenged the fire itself. There and then with the sea beneath him and the whole sky above, how was he to know he’d curse himself later when his vision dimmed early or his eyes didn’t focus right? In that moment, the sun gleamed brightly and his people grinned as they passed around bottles. Blind and laughing, and the taste was so sweet.

Those were his glory days. And like Spain in his conquistador uniform, he had gotten drunk on it, let the power replace his blood and thoughts and words. He’d become accustomed to being an empire, thought his sun would never set.

Power came to you and you loved it more than life itself, ran after the next rush like it was the very air you breathed.

_Hello, warbird, why do you bleed?_

_It is because I am only human._

He’d taken many colonies, and one a small boy with blue eyes and cornstalk-coloured hair. That boy had grown and laughed and England had loved him beyond compare, until one day that boy turned to him without a smile to tell him his new name and goodbye.

_America_.

Of all the people, of all the nations to find their own footholds and push him off. It had to be him. It was always going to be him; England had known since the first time he had seen the young boy stare into the sun just because he could. England had rushed to cover his eyes, his actions a crucial few minutes too late.

Too late, too late. He’d already gotten a taste of power, of youth, of the reckless, beautiful nation he was about to grow into. The sight made the older man's heart ache.

England would watch in the future when that young boy, now a man, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, pressed the heels of his hands into his temples and swore to his younger self.

Power came to you and hooked you from the first taste, and you would spend forever what seemed like just a step behind.

_Hello, warbird, why do you cry?_

_Because there is nothing left to bleed out_.

What did you do when the boy with eyes as blue as cornflowers turned guns and bayonets on you, met you in the rain and knew that you would not destroy him if the redness of your coat signed your death warrant?

It had all crumbled beneath him, like sand slipping out from under his fingers. He was stripped of everything. The withdrawal had left him raw; he’d screamed his throat raw in that new name, rubbed his hands redder than his uniform.

Power came to you fast and rushed away faster, leaving your fingers sliced up crimson and bloody when you reached.

_Hello, warbird, do your wings hurt?_

_Yes, they ache with old wounds._

And it all fell away. England was reduced to a thousandth of what he had been. Every inch of him held old pains, but they paled in comparison to the gaping wounds where America used to be.

The British Empire was a thing of the past, a chapter in the history books of the proud young man with golden hair and a shout of freedom ringing on his lips.

Power came to you and then it left for the boy with a laugh always ready to cover up the bitter taste of iron.

_Hello, warbird, where do you fly now?_

_Back to my old nest, to watch the sunset._

England’s time had come and passed. It was America’s golden age now, and no matter how much England wished to warn him that the taste of power would become one he both hated and longed for, the words were quiet in his mouth and never reached the boy’s ears.

Power was like the sea, and today the tides turned in America’s favour, and the whitecaps made it look as if even the sun bowed to him.

England would walk outside and squint up at that sun and remember how it felt against his skin when he was younger. And he hoped that America did not crash and burn even as he watched his fledgling’s wings begin to break.

Power came to you and then to the golden nation who thought he could do no wrong, and it would leave him just as surely.

_Hello, warbird, why are you so quiet?_

A decoration to the one who commanded the room, an old relic set behind glass. An old horse taken out for one last ride before it was loosed in a meadow, the farmers watching as it tried to run, foolish enough to think it was free, turning away as it’s heart slowly failed. Best to let it die out of sight, blind and deaf, thinking it was once again on the racetrack in the lead.

It was a merciful death. His days as an empire were nothing but memories. His days as an all-but-mock nation were all he woke up to now, so much colder without blue eyes inches from his.

Power came to you and it never came back. He’d done all he could. It was America’s time to sing, and sing all he could before his voice went dark. England just hoped it would be years.

America, America.

_Hello, warbird, will you sing again?_

**Author's Note:**

> What late-night spontaneous research about military aircraft can teach you. When I first heard the term ‘warbird’ and learned it’s definition, England’s post-colonial relationship with America came to mind. 
> 
> It’s just the boom and bust cycle. We can push against it, or try to get out of the way, but the ripples will still lap at our feet no matter where we run. Maybe they’re insignificant. Maybe we won’t even notice them. Maybe we will. 
> 
> :: Finding something you thought you threw away from a long time ago that you were indifferent to losing


End file.
